


I See Your Face

by keenquing



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keenquing/pseuds/keenquing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Funny that he was the one thing she found herself putting her faith into."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See Your Face

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mistletoe&Hallucinogens for the prompt of Sting's 'If I Ever Lose My Faith In You'.

It was a bit ironic, really; despite being 'raised' by a religious order, River had never had much faith in anything. She'd believed in things, certainly—concrete things, the things she was taught first by the Silence and Madame Kavarian and later at the University. Facts and figures, things that could be proven or disproven with artefacts and writing and logic.

Those things could never pin down the Doctor. All the stories held grains of truth, certainly, but often only that. So much of it was just speculation and legend and lies, some of which he'd spun himself. And yet, he almost _was_ a fact himself. He was always there, across all worlds and galaxies and time. It was true, like she had been taught, that he wasn't always there when he was needed most. That sometimes he failed or made things worse or just walked away.

Funny, then, that the one thing, one person she had been taught was unstable, unreliable, unworthy of anything but death—funny, that he was the one thing she found herself putting her faith into.

It was true that he wasn't always there, not even for her. Oh, bless him, he tried. She knew he tried, because on the days when they'd get it all wrong he'd storm out of the TARDIS ranting about how he had tried, but _someone_ had decided they just _had_ to stop by Ralicon 5 first, and yes there had been that nasty reactor meltdown that he'd managed to avert, but _really_ -

She'd kiss him right about then, telling him without telling to shut up and that it was all right because he was here now and that was all that mattered, and besides she hadn't yet called him because he'd still not got the time quite right but that was fine by her.

It was true, it hurt when he truly got it wrong, when she needed him desperately and he wasn't there, or he came but at the wrong time so he didn't _know_. Those times, after he left her alone in her cell, River did rage and cry at the unfairness of it all. Of loving an impossible man who could never love her the same as she loved him, who she was always losing just as she was gaining him, who she could never really _have_ even after literally and figuratively giving her life for him.

There was something she'd heard Amy's mother say, back when she was Mels, when Amy had been complaining about some trifling thing. Something about how God always answers prayers; it's just that sometimes the answer is no. That came to her, sometimes, when it all went pear-shaped—like after 1969 and the lake and the way he looked at her but didn't see her and the kiss that broke her hearts. A lesser person might have given up on him, in moments like those. Might have cowered under the painful force of his rage and mistrust and the sheer weight of all the lies she had to spin when she truly wanted to tell him everything.

 **Sometimes, the answer is no.**

 **Sometimes, though. Some times are special. Sometimes she feels so, so blessed. Now and then, every once in a very long while, every day in a million days, when the wind stands fair, and the Doctor comes to call...**

 **The answer is yes.**

 

There's really no such thing as Christmas where she's made her home since being released. The seasons don't make right for anything like a winter solstice—there's a rainy season, though, and sometimes it gets cold enough to turn to sleet like it has tonight. Maybe that's why she finds herself humming carols while she cleans her guns and other equipment and why she feels a little lonely when she looks out the window. Of course she could pop in on any of Amy and Rory's Christmases in a moment, but unless she's been invited some particular year she feels like she's crashing something that was meant to be private. Not that they're alone; she has a younger brother by 2016. But their life isn't hers and never really was. Her life, even now that she's not a convict, is a lot of shooting and running.

Running with the Doctor.

She's in the kitchen when _that_ thought blooms in her hearts. It's him she wants, nights like this. Not the domestics that her parents have—he's offered her that, a time or ten, when these moods settle on her. But, no. She doesn't want the knitting and the baking and the holiday cards, not every year, wouldn't even if he would want it as well and not just tolerate it for her sake. She just wants _him_ —the him who knows her, trusts her, loves her. The one she has the fewest secrets with, the one she can spill all her passions and fears into because he understands.

“Might as well ask for him trussed up in a bow under the tree while I'm at it,” she mutters to herself, around a fingerful of custard she'd fetched from the fridge. She'd made it the other night, during a fit of insomnia, not sure why because she's not even that fond of the stuff despite him and anyway, they'd just done Asgard a few weeks back and so—

There's no tree in her house, of course, and anyway the TARDIS materialises just next to the dining room table, but when the door opens and he tumbles out he _is_ trussed up—in ropes, looks like, and he looks to be _smoldering_ a bit but those are trifles.

River's kneeling on the floor just before he hits it full force, setting the bowl down beside her so she can catch his head. “And what in Heaven's name have you gotten yourself into this time?” she says, trying to sound forceful while at the same time inspecting him for any truly grievous wounds and fighting the desire to tear off his coat and shirt so she can feel his hearts beat—though, to be fair, she wants to do that even when he doesn't show up on her door step _smoking_.

Not like she could do it anyway, with the way he starts wriggling, trying to get out of what she hopes are just ordinary, inanimate ropes.

“Mmmpngh, nothing, well, something but not a _big_ something. Welll, it—she, actually, she was quite largh--oof, but it was just a minor--ngh--disagreement. Not even a disagreement, misunderstanding really, customs on Falnor seem to have changed quite a bit since I—ach!”

River rolls her eyes and watches for another moment as he writhes ineffectually on the floor. Then, wordlessly, she puts her hands under his shoulders, props him up against one of the dining chairs to a sitting position, and starts working at the ropes.

“So, where are we?” she says, conversationally. He tries to start at them again himself, but she just slaps him away.

He huffs loudly. “Ah. Let's see....Asgard, have we done Asgard yet?”

Her breath stops for just a second, but she manages to keep working at the knot. “Just a few weeks ago, yes. How long has it been for you?”

“Three days. Not bad for us, eh?”

She gets all the knots undone and the ropes fall aside, and when she looks up he's smiling that infectious, idiotic grin that she can't help but love. “Not bad at all, sweetie,” she says, quietly. She picks a bit of ash out of his hair, using it as an excuse to smooth a hand along the side of his face and down to stroke his bowtie. His hand catches hers and holds it there for a moment, and for just a little while they're quiet and as much in synch as they'll probably ever be.

Then, of course, it ends as it always must. “Is that custard? River, why've you got custard on your floor?”

“Well, it wouldn't be on my floor if _somebody_ hadn't crash landed into my kitchen,” she says, though she's smiling because she knows exactly where he'll be starting off then, about how it wasn't him but the TARDIS and how he-

“-had the situation perfectly under control, _thank you very much_ ,” he says, looking pointedly at the TARDIS who River swears chuckles to herself, “--and if you're not eating that, I have had a very busy day with lots of running and getting lit on fire and not a whole lot eating, so if it's not too much to mmph!”

The rest of the sentence is lost around River's custard-dipped finger, as are most of the things he tries to say for the rest of the evening. She doesn't think he minds, though, because he stays that whole night into the morning. And if he sees her stroke the TARDIS' door while singing something about sleigh bells while he's taking things from her fridge, he doesn't say anything.

He does, however, pop back out just as he's leaving wearing a fez. She's about to swipe it off his smug head when she notices the sprig of mistletoe up top and just shakes her head.

“You beautiful idiot,” she puts her arms 'round his neck, kissing him hard—pouring all her love and thanks and _faith_ into it, for being just what she needed when she needed it, even if neither of them knew ahead of time, thankful this one time it all worked out as neatly as it ever has between them. She feels something similar in the kiss he returns, knows he's about to say something ridiculous like asking her to come along with him to stay.

So she ends the kiss, a bit reluctantly, but with a little smirk as she puts her mouth to his ear. “Next time, I will shoot it, mistletoe or no.”

He doesn't even pretend to chastise her this time. He just laughs, kisses her curls, and darts back into the TARDIS.

She's alone then at the kitchen table with her diary. Except she's not alone, not really. She knows, certainly, what it's like to be _really_ alone. As Mels, even with Amy and Rory, she was often alone. But now, even with her impossible man off to see the universe and her with an empty house, she's still got that knowledge that he will come back. Maybe not when she asks, or the version she's asked for, but he'll come back. She knows, and she doesn't even have to peek in his diary to make sure.

She's got faith.


End file.
